


Knuckle Curve

by Sans



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Confusion, F/M, Falling In Love, Getting Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:52:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8492248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sans/pseuds/Sans
Summary: Everything else could go sideways and upside down, just as long as she pitched and he caught. If only things didn't go sideways and upside down.





	1. The Windup

Sometimes, when she couldn’t do anything else, Ginny went to the cages and swung. She liked the noise, the machine whirring, the whoosh, the crack or silence of the bat as she twisted, the pleasant shock or quick disappointment. Over and over until her shoulders were warm. Over and over until all her thoughts had converted into kinetic energy. This time though, the thoughts didn’t dissipate into hits, but synthesized into a clear image Ginny tried her best to dispel.

She swung until her shoulder twinged. Another New Balance moment, the therapist would say. Self-sabotage. Self-destruction. Self-immolation. Ginny picked up the balls and tossed them into a tub twenty feet away. She tossed different pitches, lightly, with little to no wind up. It felt good to do this simple thing, this thing she was moderately good at that.

By the time Ginny finished, gold light cracked the blue surroundings. She could jog back to the hotel, pass out for four hours, be at the clubhouse by mid-practice, when everyone was too foregone in their routine to comment or question or give her probing looks. Ginny went to the gym instead, like she did every morning for the past week.

Gomes, a trainer, was waiting for her by the machines.

“High or low today?” Gomes asked.

“Neither,” Ginny touched her shoulder, “I might have pushed too hard in the cage.”

Gomes motioned for her to come over. They went through a stretch and Ginny failed at hiding the grimace of discomfort. Gomes lowered her arm and sighed.

“You’ve been going too hard for awhile now. You have to slow down, take a break, stop swinging, stay still for, like, thirty minutes.”

Ginny bit back the usual protest. She hated being told to slow down, but Gomes was a good trainer, and, more importantly, she trusted her. Ginny almost said so, but checked herself. The therapist wanted her to open up more, to reach out, but Ginny knew that she had a habit of reaching out and grabbing too tight.

“I would tell you to go ice the shoulder, but I think you need a float,” Gomes said.

Ginny twisted her mouth to decline, but Gomes pushed her towards the showers. “Wash up, change, and meet me at the tanks in ten.”

The iso-tanks were Ginny’s least favorite unwinding method. She only did it once, after a particularly rough game, and with Blip a tank over. Alone, in the dark, water lapping metal walls, her mistakes playing out on her eyelids -- she declined every offer until now.

Gomes helped her in and told her the timer was set for an hour. With that, the latch closed and Ginny was in the dark, floating in an ocean of salt. At first, she tried some breathing techniques, but her body wound tighter and her thoughts constricted and once vague emotions sharpened to acute, fractured realizations. Ginny didn’t want to deal with it. She didn’t want to deal with sudden awkwardness and weird guilt and useless anger. She just wanted to let it go and go back, to when baseball was the only thing she could see, when idols were card-sized and their existence as remote as the sun, when she had concrete belief in herself and her abilities. That’s what she wanted. And it was impossible. Other things had entered the field, her idol got up off the card a full-blown human, complete with baggage and a habit of looking too closely.

Ginny exhaled. Her limbs detached from her body, her head floated off, its own island. Nothing made sense. Did it need to? Did it matter, as long as she pitched and he caught? Everything else could go sideways and upside down, just as long as she pitched and he caught. That was the equation. That was it. She laughed. It was her first real laugh in a week, and the last bit of energy she had left. She relaxed into the total darkness, cutting free all the problems tethering her down, and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 Ginny blinked on the mound. The sun was right in her eyes, but without any heat. Lawson called. No good. He called again, not good enough. Ginny rolled a shoulder, positioned her fingers. Lawson called time and charged up to the mound.

“A knuckle curve,” Ginny said before he spoke.

“Baker, are you fucking serious? You don’t just decide, in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, to pitch--”

“I know,” she cut him off, “just call it. It’ll work. I’ve done it. Plenty of times.”

“I think I’m about to lose my shit, honestly. Slide or cutter.”

Ginny squinted at him. Lawson smacked his gum. They were in a standoff. Al shifted uncomfortably in her periphery. Another fifteen seconds and it would turn into a locker room issue on top of the other fifteen hundred she had accumulated over the past week and a half.

She looked him in the eye. “If you can’t catch it, I’ll go with the cutter.”

That was it. Lawson spit out the gum, swallowed the _Fuck you_ written all over his face, and walked back to home.

Ginny rubbed her spikes in the dirt. She turned, to feel the sun on her neck, then turned to see Lawson, a shadow, crouch, glove ready. No signal. Her call. She emptied her lungs, felt the stitching, calculated for low, slight spin, unpredictability. Into the windup, the pitch...the ball flew, its motion erratic, heading low. Lawson just managed to get it in his glove.

The guys slapped her hands as she entered the dugout, but Lawson ignored them and went off to wreck something.

“What happened out there?” Blip asked, sliding over to make room. Ginny only shrugged and rearranged her cap. She leaned forward on her elbows, eyes on the field, mind on the equation.

Lawson was waiting for her in the tunnel. She saw him when he saw her. Ginny let her pace falter, jostling half-heartedly with Pererra and Hooper, accepting an invitation to go out for drinks later with outfielders. Lawson nodded to each player as they passed until it was just the two of them. He kept his face averted, in the shadow. Ginny stood opposite him, against the wall. She avoided looking at him too, finding it was easier to risk sunburn than confront his eyes and pressed lips.

“Where do you want to start?” Lawson asked.

“I thought it was a good call.”

“Okay,” he nodded, “there? It turned out right. Today. Because you got lucky. Because the conditions were right. Because I caught it. Because Dickie was virtually comatose at bat today. That’s why it turned out right. That’s why. Not because it was a good call.”

“Fine,” Ginny threw up her arms, “it was a lousy call. I was insubordinate. I was throwing a fit, I was being selfish,” she turned to him, “are we at the end now?”

“No,” Lawson still didn’t look at her. The pause grew into a silence Ginny wasn’t expecting.

“You threw the knuckle curve because it’s easier on your shoulder. How do I know? Because I had to go sleuthing like a damn detective since all that shit exploded a week and half ago. I had to ask Gomes, who told me you’ve been batting and pitching instead of sleeping. I had to ask Blip, who had to ask Evelyn. I could’ve just asked Amelia, but from what I gather, you’ve gone cold on her too. So, when I asked out there what was going on,” he looked at her, “ you should have gone with the truth.”

Ginny pushed off the wall. “The truth--” She sighed. Lawson watched her, read her, like she read him at the plate. The truth was Mike Lawson turned out to be human. The truth was she threw a tantrum and forced Amelia to choose, and of course she would choose her, she’s cash, endorsements, validation. The truth was she batted and pitched and slept in iso-tanks because she probably would call him and pretend to be okay just so he could tell crap, utterly crap jokes and she would laugh and be oblivious and flirty and normal for thirty minutes. The truth was she had baseball and only baseball for practically all of her life and now she wasn’t sure she wanted it.

“The truth,” Ginny started again, “is I pitch, you catch. That’s the truth. That’s it. Amelia, my shoulder, the photos, the New Balance nightmare -- that’s extra, doesn’t matter. What matters is what we do out there.”

Lawson shook his head, exasperated. “There’s no line between what happens on and off the field. Off the field, I worry about you. On the field, I worry about you. Off the field, I want to talk, but you shut me out. On the field, you make unilateral decisions or shake off reasonable calls, shutting me out.”

He sighed and rubbed his beard. “You’re young. You got a lot to learn. It’s been a rough couple of weeks. All those excuses only work for a time,” he pushed off the wall, “at some point, you gotta start facing yourself, facing what you want, what you want from others, opening your mouth, and saying it.”

“Okay,” Ginny straightened, “you want me to talk? I didn’t call you when I had that panic attack. I called Amelia, because she’s that person to me. If I wanted to let you in, I would. But that’s not what I need from you. Do you get that?”

Lawson gazed at her for a few seconds, slapped his mitt against his thigh, then started down the tunnel. Ginny fell back against the wall, eyes burning.

“Oh, and by the way,” Lawson stopped, “I am your catcher, but I don’t have to put up with your shit. Want to be innovative, wait for Duerte. Till then, respect my experience and my captaincy. Got it?”

They looked at each other in the deepening darkness. Ginny nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

She watched him limp away.

* * *

 It got worse. They won games, enough for them to get hopeful, for people to stop her at the grocery store and ask if she’s taking care of the arm and to maybe consider cold-pressed juice. The leers and lewd comments ebbed the better she performed, the more she seemed unconcerned. Amelia secured two more endorsements and found office space. Elliot taught her about Instagram and even let her manage the account. It got worse. Her fastball topped ninety in a game against the Rockies. They lost by one, but Al still clapped her on the back. It got worse. Ginny went back to the Omni to get changed for a night out with Cara and realized Lawson said nothing to her except, “Good work, Baker,” and “change up.”

Five words. That’s it. Five words for an entire week. And before that, what, Jesus, she didn’t even know. How long had it been since he limped away? She stood before the closet, counting back two weeks. Two whole weeks. She rifled through blouses and slacks and picked out her best and only club outfit, a short plum-colored dress. They only spoke on the mound. He didn’t call her rookie. Blip even mentioned it, but she had shrugged it off. Ginny wriggled on the dress, ran a hand through her hair, slipped on shoes, grabbed some earrings and her going out wallet and left.

“Wow,” Cara said when Ginny entered the car, “did you read all of my text?”

Ginny frowned. “We’re going out to a club, right?”

“We’re going to see a band at The Club, in La Jolla. New venue, just opened. Not a nightclub,” Cara laughed. “Aw, you wanted to go dancing?”

Ginny looked down at the dress and then at Cara. She wore jeans and a crop top. “Turn around, I gotta change.”

Cara reached into the backseat and pulled out a leather jacket. “Here, wear this. What are the shoes?”

Ginny held them up. Cara nodded. “Platforms, leather, short dress. Classy alt-chick. You’re good,” she glanced at Ginny, then laughed. “I’m serious. You look good.”

She turned up the music, rolled down the windows, and started singing. It was a rock song, the guy was practically yelling, Ginny had no idea what the hell she was hearing, but she put on the leather jacket, put in the earrings, and made up the words as she sang along. By the time they hit I-5, it got better.

They arrived for the latter half of the opening act, an electronica duo Ginny wasn’t really into.

“Do you want anything?” Ginny asked above the noise.

“Always beer,” Cara answered.

Ginny worked through the crowd to the bar. She leaned over to catch the bartender’s eye and saw Lawson at the very end, in a dark suit, talking to another man, in a gray suit, the both of them pointing at various corners, at the ceiling, towards the stage. It looked like a business meeting.

His eye swept her way and Ginny leaned back. It got worse. She just avoided him. In public. Maybe it was still salvageable. Maybe she should take his advice and grow up and deal with it.

Ginny stepped forward, angled her head to the end of the bar. Lawson was gone. She slumped, relieved. The bartender appeared and took her order. She turned, beers in hand, and there he was, about to pass by.

“Baker,” he said. He stepped out of the traffic, his eyes doing a quick scan of Ginny. The surprise was genuine, but it expired as soon as she read it. Now the expression was neutral, blank. He might as well have on his catcher’s mask.

“What are you doing here? I didn’t think this was your scene,” Ginny said.

“It’s not,” he looked around, “I didn’t think this was your scene, either. Too hipster.”

“Well,” she held up the beers, “I’m a classy, alt-chick tonight.”

Lawson dropped his gaze to her outfit. Ginny read the question on his face.

“No,” she said, but a bass drop swallowed her words. Lawson tightened his jaw, nodded and touched her arm, brought his lips to her ear.

“I’ve gotta go, but have fun, alright? See you at practice tomorrow.”

His fingers were warm on her arm despite the leather. Or because of it. And he had on cologne, not drenched in it, but enough to make her miss it when he pulled away. Ginny moved to catch his arm but he practically floated away, caught on some fast-moving current. She stared after him even when he was gone, hands full of sweating beers.

Ginny found Cara near the front, handed her a beer. Cara was talking, and then the lights dimmed, and the band came on, the club swelled then contracted. Why did he leave his face open like that? Why did he misunderstand? Why did she let him leave? Why did it matter? Why can’t he just be Mike Lawson, catcher and Captain of the San Diego Padres? Some guy tried to flop against her and Ginny elbowed him in the side. Bass vibrated through her. The singer had a high, waspy voice cutting through the heavy beats. Ginny listened. The voice sounded near, the words were her words, the urgency and the resignation. Cara had one hand in the air, the other over her heart, twisting and swaying. Everyone around her, every single person, moved. She was the only person who stood still.

 _Face yourself_.

Ginny cut through the crowd. Once she got outside, she didn’t stop. If she did, the fear would grab hold and direct her to the Omni, to her room, to her bed, to another cycle of the same. She texted Cara and got an Uber.

The driver dropped her off one street over. She made sure the car was gone, but walked up the street and then over, just to be certain. No one was outside. Everything was after midnight quiet, the quiet where even breathing felt like a disturbance. She tried not to think what she looked like to some insomniac who saw her panting up the hill.

She turned a corner and there it was, his house. Dark. No car. Her stomach dropped. Ginny kept walking, up the steps, to the door. Sweat popped on her face, her chest, her hands. She pressed the doorbell. At least she thought it was. She pressed a button. There wasn’t enough air, it wasn’t cool enough. A light came on. Ginny had ten seconds to run. Nine. Eight. Seven. She loosened her shoulders, shook her legs. Six. She inhaled until it hurt. Five. The door opened.

Lawson stood in the doorway in sweats and a t-shirt, expression a mixture of confusion, fear, and caution.

“Did something happen?”

Ginny cleared her throat. “I said no, I wasn’t there on a date.”

Lawson blinked. “Okay.”

“Cara took me out, to celebrate the ninety.”

Lawson scrubbed his head. “What are we doing?”

“We’re talking. Or, I’m opening my mouth and saying something.”

His face changed. He held the door wide, a silent invitation. Ginny stepped inside, but stayed in the foyer.

“I pitched a ninety mile per hour fastball. My fastest. You said nothing,” Ginny started the moment he closed the door.

“Okay, can you give me, I don’t know, a brief summary of points we’re going to hit tonight, because my back is killing me, my knees are killing me, and now you’re here, about to fuck with my head, and I want to at least have one of the three in working order later.”

Ginny took off her shoes and walked down the hall to the living room. Lawson joined her a few seconds later, moving past her to settle on the couch.

“You can sit if you want.”

“No, thanks.”

“We’re not even playing and you shake off my calls,” Lawson chuckled.

“This is the most we’ve said to each other in a month,” Ginny said. She sat in a chair and looked at the television console. “And you call me Baker. Not Rookie. Not Ginny. Baker.”

“You didn’t seem bothered by it. Besides, you had other shit going on.”

She looked at him. “I pitched a ninety mile per hour fastball that you caught. That’s some shit, right?”

Lawson nodded. “It is. It’s great. I’m glad your friend took you out to celebrate.”

Ginny stood. “It’s not fair, at all, how you get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Tell me that you’re worried about me, that I’m shutting you out, then drop out of my life and only say five words to me all week, and then, when I see you in public, you think I’m on a date and leave and then when I come here to get this all out, you’re this old man sitting on his couch, all copacetic and comfortable and completely fine.”

Ginny whirled away. Her frustration got the best of her. She couldn’t sit still, couldn’t look at that stupid, dumbstruck look on his face. She went to stare out the wall of windows overlooking a glimmering pool and the city tumbling towards the water.

“I was wrong, okay?” Ginny sighed. “I was wrong about it, and I made it worse because,” her heart beat right under her tongue, “you’re not that guy hanging on my wall, you’re not a catcher, or my captain, or my friend. I don’t know what you are.”

She heard him get up, then saw his reflection approach her, gently, with so much grace. It hurt to watch him. Ginny closed her eyes, hoping to God he wouldn’t touch her, or say her name with any hint of softness, or do anything that might make it harder to leave.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t know what you are either,” Lawson said. He was close, within reach.

Ginny folded her arms to her chest and leaned against the glass. “It’s not, but thanks for letting me know.”

Quiet lapped around them. She cracked open an eye to see Lawson standing next to her, looking out. She turned her head to look at him fully. Seconds. A minute. Two. He eased into a lean and angled his head to look at her.

“What do you want to do?” Lawson asked.

She didn’t think. “You call, I pitch.”

Ginny waited while he thought it over.

“Okay,” he said.


	2. The Stretch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike Lawson gets wrecked on love.

Mike went to a bar and got appropriately shitfaced. That’s what any guy with an ounce of self-pity did when a rookie knocked him flat without laying a finger on him. What a fucking nightmare. He winced after draining the third glass of scotch. Time started to unspool. He searched for when it all went sideways. Smacking her ass like it was just another ass? Or maybe sliding up to Amelia at the bar? How about the Nike party, when he was rejected not once, not twice, but three times in two hours? No, no, it was when he made the _Major League_ reference in reference to himself.

Mike rested his head on the bar. _Do you get that?_ Yeah, he got it. He got it a week earlier, when she smiled at him, wrapped her warm arm around his middle, and cut him with a handful of words. Fucking. Brutal. He lifted his head long enough to empty the glass.

“You want me to call someone, Mr. Lawson?” the bartender asked.

Mike looked up, then looked around. All the stools were up on the counter save for his, and a guy in a kid-sized polo mopped the floor. He overstayed his welcome. Again.

“No, I’ll call a...something. Don’t worry. Here,” Mike fumbled for his wallet and pulled out a hundred, “keep the change.”

He managed to make it to the corner before he buckled under it. His weight. The alcohol. He replayed the scene in the tunnel. God, he told her he worried about her. She didn’t give two shits. How many rejections was this? Two? Or strikes? Mike laid down. The baseball analogies troubled him. Rejections. Why did he even consider them rejections? They didn’t count because she was a rookie who, yes, laid out on the ground, cheek to cheek with the sidewalk, Mike could admit was heat personified, but still, a rookie, a greenshoot with carbon steel for a spine.

And what was he? A guy who maybe had a year left, who had to take an ice bath every time he walked from the field to the clubhouse, who only had a beard because his hand couldn’t hold anything that didn’t resemble a baseball. Jesus, his bloated hands. Compared to Baker’s, he was a fucking ogre.

Stop thinking about her. Stop thinking about her. Think about Rachel. Think about that charming piece of shit fiance. Think about how Rachel’s hand stayed a second longer than it should on his back. Think about Amelia’s legs. Think about Amelia sprawled, naked, on the bed. Don’t think about the last time Baker looked at him. Don’t think about calling her Ginny. Don’t think about her face lit up by the roar of the crowd. Don’t think about it. Okay, think about her windup. Think about her pitch.

Mike sat up. A few minutes later, a car pulled up and the bartender, who appeared out of the literal blue, hauled his ass up and into the car. Mike didn’t even get a chance to say thanks. The guy just nodded, like he knew.

A minute in Mike knew the destination. It was the route he took from home, or what was once home, now it was a place where another man lived with his former wife, about to have the life he thought he’d be having. Mike stared at the passing shadows of buildings, the backlit clubs and restaurants, dark palms swaying against a dark sky. The Omni bore down suddenly, and he wondered if he could see her room as they passed, if one of those soft yellow rectangles contained a rookie who had a good arm, but had a pressure-cooker of a temper and a -- Mike shook his head. Don’t think it. Don’t.

He directed the driver around to the team entrance, tipped, and made himself stand and suck in as much humid air as possible so he could make it to the showers without looking like a total drunken fool. Hishiro and Reese were in the cages, laughing and quoting movies. He felt old listening to them, watching them bend and twist and jog. They didn’t notice him and he was grateful, because he hated them and probably would have busted his hand on someone’s jaw.

Mike had every intention of going straight to a shower stall and passing out under a warm spray, or taking an ice bath, or laying out in the middle of the clubhouse. He found himself instead on his back on a bunk, blinking hard at his phone. He wanted to call her. They would be talking shit around this time. Talking for the sake of it, talking to keep the mind off a loss, or a misstep, or whatever. He would tell a joke, she would do an impression. Chuckle, hang up, fall asleep. He wanted that. That easy, simple thing. Not this hard, unpredictable, walking on eggshells thing. Mike dropped the phone and sighed. He should call her. Apologize. Even if it’s to her voicemail. Even if she said nothing but “Yeah” or “What?” or “Lawson”. Even if…

“Lawson,” a hand shook him, “Mike.”

He opened an eye. It was Ginny, peering at him. She was next to him in the bunk. It was dark, but her eyes were two lamps, and the curve of her cheek and the swell of her chest and the rise of her hip were visible. Mike looked down the length of her. She had on her workout uniform, so she basically had on nothing.

Maybe she came in early, to fuck with him. _By lying in your bunk?_ Mike became aware of the absence of space between their bodies.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

Baker leaned over him. “What would you like me to do?”

 _Nothing_. Mike couldn’t speak. Ginny grinned and dropped her head to kiss him deep and slow. She slid on top of him and his hands roamed over her body, gripping her ass, grinding his erection, painful as it was, into her crotch. She bit his lip in response, then rose up to straddle him, rotating her hips.

“How’s that? Does it feel good?”

Mike brought his hands up to cup her breasts, but she caught them and eased them back behind his head. She kissed him with that same grin.

“This is the truth, Mike,” Ginny said against his mouth, “I pitch and you catch.”

Mike jerked awake, heart racing, dick hard. He stared blindly into the darkness until familiar shapes materialized -- door, bunk, table. He had on his clothes from last night. No one was in the room. Mike collapsed back onto the mattress, rubbing his chest. Shit. That grin wasn’t a grin. It was a smirk. A sexy as hell smirk. _Shit_.

* * *

Mike moved through the motions. It was easier. He showed up, growled a few times, gave half-inspired pep talks, blocked out the strain on his back, the stiffness in his knees. He saw Baker more on the field and in the dugout than anywhere else. She played a masterful avoidance game. She showed up when the guys went out, she slapped his hand when they won, hung her head when chastised about stolen bases, scowled and spit on the mound when they disagreed, went over plays in the clubhouse, but let the room thin to the two of them and she was gone. She varied her training and kept odd hours.

It would have irked him before, but Mike was grateful for the cold war. The less he saw of her, the less fed into the dream. Because it didn’t go away. It came back on good days, when he felt like Mike Lawson, All-Star, Hot Shit. It came back when he dozed off in the ice bath. It even cockblocked him on a couple of occasions by flashing across his brain. It was damn near impossible to get anything done, so, as the wise dead said long ago, Mike faked it till he made it. He trained his face to remain impassive, and when Baker threw an unconscious, genuine smile his way after a successful pitchout to keep their score level against the Giants, he made sure going forward he had enough gum to chew through the desire. And that was the horrifying thing. The desire. That it was a Thing. And he had It. For Her.

He focused on other things. Duarte showed up to more practices, more often. Al’s face grew longer and longer every time Mike talked to a trainer for more than five minutes, which was every time he talked to a trainer. The difference between starting and relief became more stark. Mike began to wonder if he could transition well to first base, if his reflexes were tight enough, if he had any agility left.

He was on this train of thought when Rachel called.

“Playing the Dodgers tomorrow?”

Mike shifted in the seat. “Yeah, we’re on the way now.”

“You guys are doing really well,” she said.

“We’re doing okay,” he replied. Blip looked up from the latest _New Yorker_ and raised an eyebrow.

Mike stood up and moved towards the back of the bus as a preemptive measure.

“People are saying division, maybe World Series? That’s better than okay, Mike.”

“Well, you know how people are,” he passed Baker deep in a game on her phone, “they’re fickle.”

She paused, turned her head, but Mike continued on.

“Was that a dig?”

He settled in an empty corner. “No dig, just an observation. So what’s going on?”

“Nothing, just wondering if it’s safe to plan another party at the house without Jack Taylor showing up.”

Mike chuckled. “Pretty sure he’s retired by now.” Rachel laughed. They sank into a companionable silence.

“I actually called to ask you something,” Rachel started.

Mike watched the passing cars. “I can probably answer.”

“Did you mean it? What you said that night?”

Mike heard the hope in her voice. This would be one of those easy things he had gotten used to, giving people hope when he was a tear away from a brace and a cane. He knew all he had to do was say, “I still mean it,” and that was it, he’d be happy, all’s well that restarted well. But as he sat there, staring at the cars streaming by, listening to Rachel breathing in his ear, Mike was interested in uncertainty, in risk-taking, in finding real hope instead of performing illusions.

“I’ve been thinking about a woman. I have no idea if it’ll work out though. And that’s okay. It won’t be easy, not like how it was with you and me,” Mike sighed, “but we had our time. And I’m grateful for it.”

Rachel said nothing for a few minutes. Mike listened to the silence. Their last chance expired on her shaky breath.

“Well, at least she has good fashion sense,” her voice softened, “and a strong arm. Don’t lose her.”

And then she was gone. Mike held on to the phone for a long time. It was over. They were done.

“You okay?”

Mike looked up. Blip took the seat next to him.

“It’s over between me and Rachel.”

Blip blinked. “It’s been over for a year.”

“You know what I mean.”

“So no more moping or making a fool of yourself? Good,” Blip took out his magazine. “Now that the mourning period’s over, that dirty sponge you’re calling a beard’s going too?”

Mike petted his face. “No way. This hair’s the reason we’re winning.”

“Sure, Mike. It’s your facial hair. Whatever keeps you going, man.”

Out of respect, Blip gave him a two-minute respite before angling to set him up with a software developer from Reseda.

* * *

Games flowed by him like a river. They won more than they lost. Mike took care of the beard, listened to his trainer, didn’t bug his agent as much about Phase 2. Baker only shook him off about five times per game, so that was good. They were playing the Rockies at home when he called for a fastball and she delivered, right into his palm. It had the sting of a ninety. The game ended in a loss, but the rookie threw a ninety, her fastest, and the guys were happy for her, so Mike only bitched for a minute and when Baker turned to him, eyes a thousand watts, he slapped her hand and said, “Good work, Baker,” changed, and practically ran all the way home.

He had to, because he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to do it right there, right in front of Al and Blip and the team, pull her in and kiss her slow. Mike sat by the pool, head in his hands. He wasn’t a religious guy, but he considered going to a church and lighting a candle for his sanity.

Blip called. “What’s on the agenda for tonight?”

Mike looked around at the pool, the view, the sky. “Not interested.”

“Don’t worry, Evelyn’s taking a break from trying to make you a decent man --”

“-- finally--”

“--but I need you to go to the opening of The Club. Don’t start acting like this is a chore,” Blip said when Mike groaned, “I’ve been going to meetings and hitting reply all on those emails like a good proxy, but Devron wants you to come out, see the place, you know, talk to the manager about, I don’t know, celebrity appearances and velvet curtains.”

“You’ve been going to the meetings but you don’t know what kind of place this is?”

“It’s called The Club, the leap ain’t far.”

Mike pulled at his beard. He wanted to stay in, troll some twitter feeds, maybe even destroy some fantasy leagues. If he went out in this mood, he’d nitpick himself into a fight. “Why don’t you take Evelyn? I’ll,” Mike mouthed the words before he said them, “look after the children.”

“You?” Blip guffawed. “You? Take care of _my_ kids?”

“Fine,” Mike sighed. “But just for the record, I’m perfectly normal. It’s your kids that are weird. At their age, I was all over _Legend_.”

“It’s easy, Mike. Pixar or Nickelodeon. Easy. No devils trying to destroy the world, no murdered unicorns. Lost fish and Rugrats reruns. Boom.”

“Whatever,” Mike got up, “I’m going.”

“Find a nice woman! No groupies!”

Mike hung up. Even though he wasn’t feeling particularly inspired, he made an effort. Black on black, fine leather shoes, the cologne from the Sundance swag bag. He even combed his hair. Maybe he’d think about finding a nice woman tonight. Maybe.

* * *

He returned home two hours later, in a daze. He was fucked. Well and truly. The clothes came off and were quickly replaced by a t-shirt and sweats. He needed to do something. A run. He went for a run around the neighborhood, quick, at full power. He came back and did a few laps in the pool, then collapsed on the bed, spent.

The night deepened. Sleep never came, thoughts started to bubble up. Mike showered under the coldest spray possible. He caught his reflection in the mirror. The beard ate up his face. There were prominent frown lines. Mike stared at himself and the thoughts broke upon his face, in his eyes, and he finally reckoned with them.

It struck him like lightning on a clear day. She stood there, loose-limbed in a leather jacket and fitted dress, eyes bright and focused, grinning at him, at _him_ , and his stomach clenched, his skin itched, his dick twitched. And if it had just been limited to a physical response, Mike could have dealt with it, tamped it down, transferred the thirst to someone else. Instead, he saw the two beers and irritation cracked him across the face. And then he touched her arm and it bloomed into the certainty that if he saw the guy, he’d be an absolute asshole and she’d probably pitch a fastball at his face at practice the next morning.

So that was that. Mike dressed absently and sat on the floor in the dark. He saw Ginny Baker standing there and wanted to be the one she was with, wanted to be the one she handed that beer to, wanted to be the one to take her home, take off the jacket, the dress, wanted to be the one. Period. He wanted a full-blown life, in neon lights underscored by fire and with every firework in existence going off in the background, with this woman. The realization electrified his mind.

It wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t work. She was twenty-three, a rookie, _his_ rookie, for Chrissake. It wouldn’t be fair. She called him Old Man. The best parts of him were breaking down. She deserved the best parts of him. More often than not, he was a mentor, someone she talked form with, someone she wouldn’t call when gripped by a panic attack, someone she idolized a long time ago. It wouldn’t work.

“She had a poster of me on her wall,” Mike mumbled. God, he felt ill. How was he going to do this? This was more than impassivity and chewing through it. His body _bent_ towards hers. Her face literally mesmerized him. When she spoke, when she laughed, he was happy. What the fuck was he supposed to do?

The doorbell rang. Mike checked the time. Quarter to midnight. He eased onto his feet. It rang again. He moved down the stairs and to the hall. Ginny’s face filled the intercom screen.

For a second, Mike thought about pretending to be out. And then he saw her inhale as though she was drowning, and he forgot about himself, turned on the light, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Baker looked startled. “Did something happen?” Mike asked, genuinely concerned.

As soon as she cleared her throat, Mike knew how this was going to shake out. He could have stopped her, but he needed to know and hear it and be sure.

“I said no, I wasn’t on a date.”

Mike played it loose. So what if his heart beat so hard he felt it in his cheeks. Baker’s eyes kept sliding all over his face, she was nervous as hell, and it was for him, for them. He played it fast and loose, irritated her by letting her talk, switch-up, sitting there like he knew what he was doing.

And then:

“I was wrong, okay?” Baker sighed. “I was wrong about it, and I made it worse because you’re not that guy hanging on my wall, you’re not a catcher, or my captain, or my friend. I don’t know what you are.”

She had her back to him, but Mike saw her face reflected in the glass. The expression was the same one he saw earlier in the mirror, when he realized he had been struck by her.

Mike moved towards her, eyes on her reflected face. He hadn’t said anything yet. Even with that confession, he wasn’t sure. Baker closed her eyes on him, like she was praying. Mike stood next to her and drank her in, looked at her like how he wanted to look at her, let his heart bleed all over her.

“If it’s any consolation,” he murmured, “I don’t know what you are either.”

Baker folded her arms and quirked her lips. “It’s not, but thanks for letting me know.”

Mike grinned. He smiled like an idiot. He looked out at the pool, the view, the sky. They were going to do this. Hope and trepidation squeezed his guts.

He felt her gaze. If he looked into those eyes in this kind of quiet, if he looked at her and she didn’t blink, Mike was gone. He was already gone, but then he’d be lost.

Mike looked into those eyes. Baker didn’t blink. He sank away. The only thing left was what was next.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

Baker straightened. “You call. I pitch.”

Mike had no idea what that meant, but she did. "Okay," he said.

Baker slid over to him, grabbed his shirt, and kissed him. It was hungry, devoid of anything remotely soft. Her hand slipped beneath the band of his sweatpants, fingers slipped over his dick. The shock wore off. He pressed her against the window and nestled between her legs. She dragged her teeth across his bottom lip. Her grip changed and Mike lost track of her lips, found the smooth column of her neck, and dropped his head there as she stroked him. He thought he was going to die, the way she circled all the way to tip and back, easy and smooth, her breath hot against his shoulder.

And then she removed her hand. Mike kissed her, hard, pressing his erection into her crotch. She gasped into his mouth, made a little sound that made his stomach drop. His hands searched for her underwear. She leaned away a little to catch his eyes.

“You first,” Baker said, breathless and shaky. Mike read it all over her face. If he brought her leg up and slipped his hand down, she’d melt. She wanted to torture herself, draw it out, savor it. Mike understood, so he obliged.

He took a step back and removed his shirt, then pants. Her eyes devoured him. He imagined her mouth where her eyes skidded over his skin, and it became painful to breathe. _You call._ Mike pinched a bit of fabric at her waist.

They locked eyes. He started walking backwards towards the stairs and she followed. Curiosity, lust, anxiety, amusement -- her face changed through a kaleidoscope of emotions with every step. A smile broke out as they ascended, confidence shone through, she watched him watch her, and at the top Baker closed the distance between them.

* * *

Mike stretched an arm and felt nothing but sheets. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. The time read half past seven. Her dress was gone, so was the underwear and bra and condom wrappers and condoms. Mike leaned on his arms and looked up at the ceiling. He felt heavy, his mouth still tasted of her, skin smelled of her. He was afraid to call out her name. Her name. Baker or Ginny? Mike said it softly.  _Ginny._

The blender roared downstairs. Mike jumped. It stopped, and then there was a clank of steel meeting glass, ceramic against ceramic, the television clicked on, and her voice traveled up the stairs, asking Google something about banana fritters.

Mike pulled on some clothes, splashed cold water on his face, tried not to look too fucking delirious, and went downstairs. Ginny leaned against the counter, considering her phone. He came up behind her, but his knees popped and she ended up considering him.

“Did I wake you? I wanted to make us something, and I started to, but I’m not sure, exactly, what happened,” she talked fast, looking away even when her body turned towards him.

Mike smiled and Baker laughed that nervous laugh. If he cupped her cheeks, they would be warm. He knew how hot her body could get. Instead, Mike moved around her to look at this unsure mixture.

“It looks suspect, to say the least,” Mike said. Baker stood over his shoulder as he tasted it.

It was terrible. Mike laughed. Her frown deepened.

“Is it missing something? Google said to add some stuff, but I don’t know where the sugar is, or the spice, if you have any? Maybe we should order something?”

“Gin,” Mike wrapped an arm around her waist, “I like you, I absolutely adore you, but babe, in the future, let me make you breakfast, okay?”

She looked all kinds of startled at his words. He raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“So you’ll make me breakfast in the future,” Ginny relaxed into him, “okay. Sounds good. This future.”

Ginny kissed the side of his mouth and he touched her face. Her cheeks were warm. She tasted the batter and made a face, nodding in agreement. Mike exhaled. When he breathed again, he was in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so hard to write because of all the different avenues one can take with this guy. I know some developments have happened between 1.06 and now, so think of this as AU, dear reader. Thank you for reading, commenting, and for all the kudos! It's appreciated. Last chapter will hopefully go up in less than two weeks.


	3. The Pitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pain in his knee and the joy on her face made everything clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, long time, no update. But here it is. And it's depressing. Blame Denmark. Actually, blame the idea to vacation in Denmark in early January. 
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments and bookmarks! It has provided an extra layer of warmth.

Seventh inning. Dodgers led by 6 runs to three. Ginny was out of rotation, but Al kept her on as left outfielder. They needed a dirty pitcher, but Al was reluctant to switch out for Baker when the game wasn’t sliding into hell. Mike wasn’t sure. It certainly felt like hell.

Duarte was on the bench and Mike felt his age, dodging fouls, sliding to catch a few wild pitches, grounding balls. No amount of concentration mitigated the sharp pain in his knees. He called the wrong pitches, and Krilic kept following his lead, which gave the Dodgers another run and placed a runner on third. Mike called time and Al met him and Krilic on the mound.

“What’s the problem? Strain?” Al asked.

“Not me,” Krilic glanced at Mike, “maybe there’s something up, I don’t know.”

“I know we said cutters and curves,” Mike turned to Al, “but Gonzalez pulls hard left on fastballs. We’re going to have to mop up and rout Gonzalez before Seager comes out here.”

Al scratched his nose. “Alright. Make the play.”

Mike called. Krilic stretched and pitched a good fly. The ball went left, far and high. Baker zoned in, body skipping backwards, glove ready. The runner on third looked skeptical. Gonzalez sprinted towards first. Baker caught the ball. Gonzalez, out. Mike knew Turner would try to steal home based on that skeptical look on his face.

Turner burst into a run. Baker transitioned in one seamless turn and threw straight at Mike. In real time, it happened in six seconds. In Mike time, it lasted the rest of the game. She released, he caught, 7-2. The beauty of it: the grudging respect on Petey’s face. She beamed and wagged a finger at Pererra and Yamoto. It took some of the sting out of the 8-6 loss.

The team wasn’t a dejected mess, so Mike let it go, settling on muted praise and relieved arm bumps. Baker appeared at his side and slapped his open palm. The guys were all around, talking, whipping towels, making plans for a night at a bar or a club or at a spa, so he didn’t immediately notice the light grip of her fingers.

Their eyes caught. Baker squeezed and then walked away.

Mike considered it in the ice bath. He played the game back, the day, the week, all the way through to when she slid across to him and kissed him, hot and wet and better than anything he could have imagined, looping back to the way her eyes looked when she held his hand. Over and over as his body got comfortably numb.

* * *

As the romantic, Mike wanted to hang himself all over her. As the pragmatist, Ginny reserved every time she wanted to touch him, kiss him, wink at him, and pinch his ass during the day for when she returned to his house in the evening. They rarely made it upstairs.

And Mike was okay with it, for about two weeks. Third week, his eyes rested on her ten seconds too long, in the middle of a game. Ginny shook off the only good call against Segura and Mike strode to the mound.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ginny asked first.

“Me? What’s wrong with a break?”

"Nothing is wrong with a break,” Ginny grinned, “I just wanted to snap you out of mooning at me.”

Mike bit down on his gum. “I wasn’t.”

“If you say so,” Ginny rolled her eyes.

She motioned for him to get back. Mike hit her glove and jogged to the box. Ginny had the hardest time hiding her smile. They shutout Arizona and added another win to the count. Mike barely slapped palms and averted his eyes during the celebration. Ginny’s dimples popped all the way to the bar.

“Seriously, what’s going on?” Ginny asked.

They sat side-by-side, shoulders brushing. Mike dropped his eyes and picked at the label of his beer. When not thinking of baseball, Ginny decoded Mike Lawson. For instance, whenever confronted with a potentially awkward topic, Mike’s face took on a sheepish expression and he played with anything at hand.

Ginny shelled another pistachio. Mike eyed the scattered shells as though trying to divine an answer. She could rush him, but it was too much fun to watch him squirm, so Ginny went on eating.

“Who am I to you?” Mike asked. His voice was low and the words came out slow.

“The guy I’m with,” Ginny responded.

“Okay,” Mike nodded, “and I’m with you. But outside of Elliot, no one should know.”

Ginny heard the question. She slid over and smiled into his face. “Are you asking me to level you up from chief groupie to Bae?”

Mike glanced at her, saw the smile, and lightly pushed her. “You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re cute,” Ginny teased.

His mouth turned up in a half-smile, red tinged his cheeks, and hearts practically shot out of his eyes. Ginny was on the fence before, but now it was official: love. It bloomed warm in her chest, stuck to her ribs, twined with her blood vessels.

Something must have shone in her eyes because Mike drank his beer and nodded to their surroundings. “Don’t do it,” he said.

“Do what? This?” Ginny inched her face closer. “Or this?” She put her lips within centimeters of his, felt his beard on her chin, felt the heat rising between them. Mike followed her as she eased away. Ginny laughed and sat back on the stool, leaving him dazed and shifting uncomfortably.

“I’m gonna need fifteen minutes to, you know,” Mike exhaled, “decompress.”

“Don’t decompress completely,” Ginny stood and touched his shoulder, “I need to do what I couldn’t earlier.”

Ginny left him at the bar and went to hang with the guys. Mike watched her walk away, then caught Blip ogling him from the pool table. _Shit_. No sudden movements. Mike took a long draw of beer before putting his back to the scene.

He was thinking of bailing after finishing the beer, when a hard clap stung his shoulder. “The fuck --” Mike sputtered.

Blip gripped his shoulder. “So,” he grinned, “you have something you want to tell me?”

The grip didn’t let up as Blip took a seat. Mike shook his head. “Nah, man, nothing.”

“Nothing?” Blip pointed behind them. Mike glanced back to see Ginny wink at him and put up a threatening fist towards Blip.

“She’s just being, you know,” Mike cleared his throat, “a pain in the ass.”

Blip released his shoulder. “God, you’re in love, aren’t you?”

“Just because I’m tolerating her bullshit antics doesn’t mean we’re drawing hearts on each other’s lockers,” Mike said.

Blip treated him to his most annoying knowing look. Mike hung his head.

“Alright! Fuck it, I don’t care,” Mike scrubbed his face, “fine. You’re right. We’re together.”

“Wow,” Blip shook his head, “and when did this happen?”

“A week ago? Before that? I don’t know. It just changed, you know,” Mike glanced again at Ginny. She was laughing with Perrera. “It just changed,” Mike repeated.

Blip nodded. “I can see that. And how long do you think it’ll be before it changes again?”

Mike swallowed the rest of his beer. “I don’t want to fuck this up,” he said after a minute.

“Then don’t. But if you do,” Blip motioned to the bartender for two more, “I know where you live and what bar you drink at.”

The bartender set down the bottles. Mike and Blip tapped necks. “Fair,” Mike said. They drank on it.

* * *

Two weeks later, they had their first real fight. Over real estate. In retrospect, Ginny figured they were due. Mike had been quiet and weird since a photog snapped a picture of her getting out of Mike’s car and entering the Omni from the service entrance at 6:00 a.m. They were only spared because the car was a rental from Mike’s dealership.

“You ever think about leaving the Omni?” Mike asked.

They were laid out in his bed, bodies cooling after a particularly nice round of sex. Ginny eased onto an elbow to look back at him. Mike lifted an eyebrow.

“I’ve been too busy to look,” Ginny said.

Mike directed his gaze to the ceiling. “There are some good properties out here.”

“Yeah, nice seven-figure glasshouses,” Ginny shook her head, “I like what I have now.”

“You mean you like living in a hotel, out of a suitcase, with nothing of your own around?”

Ginny rolled onto her back with a sigh. “Yeah, I like living out of a suitcase. I like it. I don’t want to live in a condo or a McMansion or whatever this is you’re living in. And besides,” she sat up, “between Petco, Blip’s, and your place, I barely have time to enjoy room service.”

“And you like that?” Mike asked, incredulous.

“Again, yes.”

Mike inched up until he reclined against the pillows. “It sounds like you have your life in nice, neat, compartments.”

Ginny frowned. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem is I’d like to go to my girlfriend’s place instead of having to smuggle her to and from my place.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Okay, Mike. Sure.” She scooted off the bed to retrieve her clothes. If she put on her clothes and left, things would be a little cool between them for twelve hours before one of them sent the other a text about where to eat for dinner or a joke about Mike’s Masterpiece Theatre infatuation.

She pulled on her underwear and snapped the bra in place. Words crowded her mouth. Ginny didn’t want to fight with him, except that blanket, obviously unfair statement bugged the shit out of her.

“You know, you act like you’re the only one this matters to, like to me this is just,” Ginny threw her hands up, “about sex or something.”

“I know it’s not --”

“--what was that about compartmentalizing my life?”

“Because you are.” Mike edged off the bed. “I don’t want to keep doing this.”

Ginny whirled around. “Doing what?”

“Hiding, sneaking around. I want this simple. I want you and me. I want us to try to do this out in the open.”

“Mike,” an incredulous laugh slipped from her mouth, “what makes you think going public would make this simple?”

Ginny stared at him like an asshole sprouted from the middle of his head. Anything he said from here on would provoke the kind of fight Mike wasn’t prepared for. Best to retreat.

He disappeared into the bathroom. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question,” Ginny called after him.

“We’ve gotta be at practice in an hour,” Mike responded.

Ginny appeared in the doorway. “So I have to deal with cranky, sourpuss Mike until _you’re_ ready to bring it up again?”

Mike ignored the instant irritation at being called a ‘sourpuss’. He turned on the shower. “You wanna go first?”

“No,” Ginny inhaled, “I want to know what bit you in the ass today.”

“Fine, I’ll go first.”

Mike moved to step in, but Ginny brushed by him and turned off the water. “I’m serious, Lawson.”

And she was. Determination hardened her jaw. Ginny learned that with Mike, she had to come at him straight, bulldoze her way through, level all the bullshit he liked to throw her way. It annoyed him, Ginny saw it by the way his eyes flitted over her face. She didn’t care.

“If it’s a hassle for me to be here, say it. I’ll talk to the Omni people and to Amelia and we’ll figure something out.”

“We should tell the front office so they can come up with a plan,” Mike said.

Ginny shut her eyes for a moment. “No.”

“It’s going to come out eventually, Ginny, and it’s better for it to come from us than from a photo plastered on some fucking blog or tweet or whatever.”

Ginny looked away. He was right. Of course he was right. Mike had experience on his side, whereas Ginny had some half-formed idea that they could just be together for as long as possible before the world and the photos and the commentary intruded. He was right. But it was too soon to be right.

“We’ve been together for a month,” Ginny said, “and yeah, I’m in love with you,” she looked him in the eyes, “but I’m not ready to blow up our lives. Not yet.”

Mike didn’t know it was possible to simultaneously feel elation and despair. He stepped back.

“When do you think you’ll be ready, Ginny? September? Offseason? Spring? When you check out of the Omni? Will you bundle everything into one press conference?”

Mike turned away. “Yeah, you should open with ‘I’m fucking Mike Lawson’ before talk about square footage.”

The words stung. His look before he turned away stung. Ginny blinked away the sudden tears. She left the bathroom to put on the rest of her clothes. Her mind whirred, her chest tightened, she was more afraid of crying than not breathing, she wished she had tape to go back over what exactly went wrong, then discarded that wish for one where she didn’t feel guilty for wanting to be selfish, for wanting to protect this, for cherishing it, for being difficult and young and naive and falling in love with a guy that had baggage, because Mike had, like, four planes worth of baggage, and then Ginny hit on it as she tugged on her socks, the issue, the problem, the reason ‘eventually’ meant ‘tomorrow’ for Mike while it meant some indeterminate date in the relatively immediate future to everyone else on the fucking planet.

Ginny bounced off the bed just as Mike came into the bedroom.

“I’m sorry,” Mike started but Ginny waved him off.

“I get it. I get that you’re thirty-six and every game pushes you closer to retirement, and you want to lock me down, because you’re afraid I’ll bolt. I get it.”

She zipped up her hoodie. “It’s a good reason to act like a total asshole, so,” Ginny gave him a sunny smile, “when I have that press conference, I’ll make sure to let you know.”

Mike followed her downstairs. “Don’t leave like this.” Ginny ignored him as she grabbed her phone and bag. “Baker,” he caught her hand.

“You’re walking around naked and the windows are open,” Ginny said. She leveled a blank gaze at him.

The conversation was over. Mike let her hand drop. Her phone chimed.

“Elliot’s here. See you at practice.”

She was gone in ten seconds. Mike climbed the stairs, got in the shower, and stayed under the cold spray until it burned, then numbed.

* * *

Mike twinged his left knee the night before during the seventh inning against the Braves and was in silent agony until the ninth, when he told Al to take him out of the batting order. He caught Ginny looking after him as he limped into the tunnel.

Mike went straight to Gomes. He kept his mind blank as she examined the knee.

“We’ll have to wrap it. Looks like there’s fluid. Should be a simple fix, but,” Gomes frowned at him, “anything happens and you could blow your knee, Mike.”

Mike heard this fifteen times before, and each time a vice cinched his heart. This time, a sense of inevitability weighed on him. Gomes left him to arrange for treatment. He sat in the room and looked around, looked at his body. He saw his reflection in the glass. Mike Lawson, thirty-six, fifteen-year veteran of the Padres, never won a ring. He got lost in the refrain. Didn’t hear the team come in hollering, didn’t hear anything until someone whooped her named.

He started. Mike looked up to see Ginny passing, dusty, hair a mess of fly-aways, skin shining with sweat, grinning and laughing like a fool with Blip and Omar and Butch. His eyes followed her until she disappeared, then stared at his reflection. After a moment, he laid back on the table and stared into the dark. His phone vibrated. Ginny. Mike turned it off. He didn’t want to taint the memory of his Rookie winning her first wild card, or see her face transform from total exuberance to sheer devastation. The pain in his knee and the joy on her face made everything clear.

* * *

They were on the field. Duarte was in full gear, Baker in training tights and muscle tee. They were arguing about the way she released the ball. Duarte started talking fast, and Baker placed her glove on a hip and looked off into the distance.

Mike watched them. His throat was dry, eyes were dry, a hollow feeling spread out from his chest. He didn’t need to work. All he needed was to stand there, watching, and weariness seeped into his bones.

He stayed until Duarte trotted back to the box. It was too long a walk back to the car, so he stopped at the batting cages, choosing the one with the busted machine, out of camaraderie. It felt good to swing, even if Mike hit more pop flies than singles. The machine jammed as he found a good rhythm. It was already dusk, and his arms were heavy, but Mike didn’t want to leave. He picked up the balls and mulled around until the lights kicked on, then went to go fix the machine.

“It could be the wheel.”

Mike started. Baker entered the cage. She tucked her glove under one arm and came over to do an inspection. Was he skeptical? Absolutely. This was the same woman who broke the juicer and nobody knew how. Did his stomach tie itself into a neat bow as she furrowed her brows, bent at the waist, and went straight for the launch mechanism? Fucking hell, yes.

“Yeah, this needs maintenance,” she announced after a quick analysis.  

Mike kept his mouth shut. He didn’t have any gum, his mind reeled with retorts, quips, accusations, all of them arrows. Another clusterfuck headed his way and he tried to dodge it by gathering his gear and thinking of how many squats he could get through before passing out.

“But you’re in luck,” Baker tossed a ball from palm to palm, “you’ve got an Ace here.”

Mike put his stuff down. “I don’t think I can handle an Ace today.”

Baker pulled a face before putting on her glove. She rolled a shoulder, touched an earlobe, nodded towards the bat in his hand.

Mike sighed, swung his arms, and took up position. A little grin curled her mouth just so. It had been a week since he kissed that curl, kissed her chin, then down her neck, then her collarbones, then... he struck out before he even saw the ball.

“What was that?” Mike knew full well what it was.

“A strike. Passed through the zone,” Baker shook loose her arms, “you ready for a second?”

Mike managed to get a hit on it, a pop fly. He caught it and pitched it to her, their reactions quick and familiar. He was waiting for the next pitch when he realized they wouldn’t be doing that quick and familiar thing for much longer. The sting of her fastballs would become a memory.

Baker threw a split curve. Mike just managed to hit a fair ball.

“That was new,” Mike tapped his spikes with the bat, “usually your splits go wild.”

"Had a lot of backseat drivers commenting on it, so I decided to work on it.”

Mike squeezed the handle. Baker took up her knuckle curve stance. He could tell by the way her feet stood apart. Mike got some wood on it. Foul.

Slider. He could tell she had maybe four or five pitches left before she started working the shoulder. A half-hearted bunt.

Curveball. He could tell she was compensating for knowing about Duarte starting against New York. A pop fly, this one deliberate.

This was pity. Or sympathy. Mike had trouble telling the two apart. Didn’t matter. Baker wound up, Mike went cold and breathed, remembering to follow through.

Ball and bat met at the sweet spot. The ball smashed into the netting with such force it rebounded and knocked over the pitching machine. Mike grabbed his bag and strode away from the cages. Baker called after him, but he didn’t stop until he got to his car. Sweat plastered the shirt to his back. He wiped his forehead with his arm, tossed the stuff in the back, turned around, and she was there, winded, skin shining in the fluorescent light.

“You’re angry at me,” she said between breaths.

Mike closed the door. “No.”

“I saw you earlier, when I was practicing with Livan. I saw you walk away.”

She waited for him to be angry, to say what was written all over his face. She should have called him, should have went looking for him, should have given Duarte hell, should have lost her shit on his behalf, should have acknowledged it the moment she saw him, should have done something, anything, to show him how much it terrified her too. Ginny twisted the fabric at her waist. Sweat and fear burned her eyes.

In a perfect world, Mike wanted those things. He expected it. But for the first time in a while, he saw her not as someone he loved, but as Ginny Baker. He saw her as someone who played without expectations, who still believed in the beauty of baseball, with or without the math. He saw her as a true disciple, and Mike respected her for it. He loved her for it. He had to walk away because of it.

“I don’t care if you knew. I don’t care about my knees or my back or playing relief for that cologne-scented ego. None of that matters, or will matter, in retrospect,” Mike stepped close, close enough to count the folds of her sudden frown, “the only thing that matters is what comes after.”

Ginny looked into his face and knew. She shook her head. “Okay, be mad or whatever, but don’t--”

“Listen to me, Ginny. It’s unfair to--”

“Don’t say this is about me! This is about you!”

“It is. It’s unfair to me, dammit,” Mike yelled.

“It hurts like hell to be old, to watch you get this chance as a rookie while I worked hard, gave my fucking body to this game for fifteen years,” he grabbed his shirt, “and have it snatched from me. I feel like I am drowning, Ginny. I feel like I’m going off a cliff. And I want to grab onto you, because you’re the best thing going,” his voice broke and his vision blurred.

Ginny bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying or holding onto him or collapsing. The pain kept her heart from bursting. The pain grew with each passing second until she had to look away. Tears started leaking, but she couldn’t cry. Crying meant giving in. It meant he wasn’t dead wrong. It meant she might’ve wanted this more than he did. It meant she was naive.

Her heart pounded like she ran a minute mile. She did. All the way to the end. The words dried up. What else was there to do at the end except walk back? Ginny wiped her forehead, slapped away the tears streaming down her cheeks, and walked back to the field.

Mike got in his truck, but couldn't move. He watched her grow small in the rearview mirror, smaller, until she was a mirage, and then he was alone.


	4. The Battery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't really want to finish this, but then I remembered how much I hate an incomplete story.

Ginny ran. Her strides ate up pavement, streets, miles. She devoured obstacles. Nothing could stop her. Not the cramps. Not the tears wringing the air from her throat. Not the fever. Not the sweat or the fear, not his face, not his words, nothing.

By the time she reached Embarcadero, exhaustion gripped her muscles. She slowed to a jog. A humid breeze swept wet strands across her cheek. Water lapping the breakwaters replaced the constant thrum of her heart. She collapsed against a tree facing the water. 

This was it. This was how it was supposed to be. Quiet, no tears, alone, bone tired. It was easier to think. Tomorrow, wild card game in Atlanta. After that, division series. After that, NLCS. After that, World. After that, vacation. A real vacation. No baseball, no photoshoots, no interviews, no team building shit, none of that. No Amelia-ized itinerary. New Zealand. Tokyo? Winter in Sweden. The idea of cold appealed to Ginny more than anything. The coats and the boots and that place Mike--Ginny shut her eyes. Don’t stop. That place Mike. That place Mike talked about, the Sky Station, to see the Northern Lights. And saunas. That’s where he’d have to set up house, she teased. They’d have to cart him around in a sled, she’d buy him a cane so he could shuffle across the tundra. Snow in his beard. She teased and teased until he dunked her in the pool, until he pressed his smiling mouth to hers. 

It had already settled in her mind, doing stuff like vacation. How was she supposed to erase him? He was on her lips. His eyes glared at her, crinkled at her, settled on her. His hands were on her back, winding down and around. His breath warmed the inside of her thighs, his voice reverberated against her ribcage. How was she supposed to pretend she didn’t know his body, that he didn’t know hers? 

It came again, tight and terrible, right between the shoulder blades. Ginny pressed her palms to her eyes until it hurt. Soon, the sound of water sloshing against the breakwaters. The rustle of leaves. Shoes squeaking on the courts. Wheels clicking. Engines churning. Time passing.

Weak sunlight bled into her eyes. For a moment, yesterday was a fact without context. Her eyes gazed clear at the ocean. A jogger passed. Then another. A young woman on a bike pedaled lazily while sipping an obscenely green smoothie. She recognized the woman from her daily run. It was some time after six then, closer to seven. The bus to LAX had already pulled away from Petco. Ginny remained still. She wondered what would happen if she missed the flight, missed the game, missed the whole damn thing and just became one of the people biking by. 

“Hey.”

Ginny glanced up. Amelia looked down at her, holding a coffee. She had on running clothes and shades. Ginny blinked.

“Here.” Amelia handed her the coffee before settling down one tree over. 

Ginny held the cup, unsure of what to say, if she should say anything. Amelia kept her face upturned to the sky. 

“I missed the flight.”

Amelia shrugged. “We’ll get you on another one.”

Ginny stared at her until Amelia looked over. “What?” she asked.

The words crawled up her throat. Ginny nearly washed them away with coffee, but there was something in the way Amelia sat there, expectant, open.

“I wish I stayed in Arizona. I wish I waited another year. I wish,” Ginny tilted her head back, “the Padres passed and I went with L.A.”

“L.A. is nice,” Amelia said after a while, “but you want to make your mark, not follow. San Diego was the right choice.”

Ginny watched a plane weave through the leaves. “It feels like ever since I came up, I’ve been making one mistake after the other.”

“Contrary to the goddess label, you’re human,” Amelia drew up her knees, “you’re allowed to make mistakes. You’re allowed to feel like shit when things fall apart. You’re allowed.”

They looked out over the ocean. Amelia sighed and took off the sunglasses. “However it went down,” Amelia looked at her, “ it wasn’t a mistake. At least not on your end. Okay?”

Ginny nodded, not in affirmation, but out of gratitude, for not making her spill anymore blood. For being there, even though Ginny threw a fucking tantrum every other day. For being her agent, for knowing her well enough to know where to look. Ginny nodded and looked away before the tears started again.

“We can get you on a noon flight if we haul ass,” Amelia said. She hopped up and held out a hand.

Ginny inhaled, held the air until it hurt, and pushed it down. Tomorrow was today. She had a game to win, a plan to follow. She grasped Amelia’s hand.

“Let’s go,” Ginny said.

Wildcard

No one had time for long looks and painful, loaded exchanges. Ginny crackled as shortstop, Mike managed not to bungle at first, did even better at bat, the team gelled into a tight, efficient, nearly unrecognizable unit, and they washed out Atlanta, 7-1.

Ginny said two words at the press conference, went back to the hotel, slept like the dead, and was first on the bus the next morning, headphones on, watching a compilation video of the last three straight-loss games against the Cardinals. She didn’t look up once, not even when she smelled his aftershave drift by and settle somewhere two seats back.

Division

“All we have to do is do it again, better, against fucking St. Louis,” Blip said. The locker room murmur was not positive.

“We know exactly what we need to do against the Cards, guys,” Blip nodded to Ginny, “ma’am.”

“Take the rest of this day to rest, play, do whatever because for the next week, your asses better be on point, fuck-ups at zero,” Blip eyed everyone, “got me?”

They waited for Mike to bookend the speech, but he had the same amount of nothing since yesterday, so the locker room noise resumed. 

Blip settled next to him. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. Tired.”

“Everyone’s tired, Mike. No excuse to not pull something out of your ass to say to the guys.”

“My ass is tired too.” 

“Okay, but --”

“Dammit, man,” Mike yanked the towel off, “what do you want? Applause?” He stood up. “Fine. Congratulations, you make two speeches and you banged the gavel. You’ll make a great fucking captain come regular season.”

The few stragglers stopped packing their bags to stare. Al peeked through the blinds. Blip looked ready to pop him in the mouth. Mike chucked the towel into his locker, grabbed his duffle, and started the long walk out.

He chewed out his own ass all the way to the double doors. If Blip came at him with a lefty, it would be justified. He’d take it, take two even. Mike gripped the metal handle but didn’t push. It got to him, sitting there, listening to Blip, listening to the guys, listening to her silence. They would be fine, go on, win shit, be better. What was he doing? He almost dialed his agent fifty-six times in the last twenty-four hours. The excitement he was supposed to feel winning the wild card never arrived, only dread, and guilt, and a host of other emotions Mike couldn’t define. The only thing he knew to do, had to, was turn around and apologize. His neck burned at the idea. 

The room had cleared out by the time Mike returned. He caught a few of the guys, apologized, but Blip dodged him. Of course. Mike turned to leave but heard the unmistakable off-key humming of “Bad Romance”. 

Ginny glanced up at the knock. They stared at each other before she removed the buds.

“Yeah?”

“You played a good game against Atlanta.”

“I know,” she unfolded from stretching in one liquid move. Her eyes never left his. Heat pooled in his belly, like it always did when Ginny looked at him. Mike was already in the middle of a mistake.

Ginny put her back to him to remove her shirt. “Am I the last stop on your apology tour?”

“No,” Mike cleared his throat, averted his eyes too late, “but I’ll get it out the way now. I was an asshole. I’ll do better.”

“Whatever makes you feel better,” Ginny said. 

His eyes snapped to her. She was in the middle of pulling on a zip-up. 

“Care to elaborate?”

Ginny shrugged. “You’re upset because this could be your last shot and you’re not doing it as catcher. You’re upset because Blip has his shit together and yours is, has been, all over the place. You’re upset because you’re afraid.” She grabbed her bag and came to stand before him in the doorway.

They hadn’t been this close in weeks. Mike struggled with wanting to argue, grind his teeth to dust, or kiss her. Ginny just looked at him, cool as anything, while he melted.

“Talk to Blip, work it out. The team doesn’t need you to say sorry. Just don’t be dick.” She put in her earbuds, nodded to him, and walked off.

Mike leaned into the door frame. He couldn’t drink, not with the Cards tomorrow, so he’d have to feel this, every inch of it, how futile every one of his decisions has been for the past month. He felt like dry dog shit. He felt old. Mike exhaled, pushed off the frame, and walked like someone took a bat to his knees.

Game 1: Mike chalked it up to the unseasonably cold weather afterward, both in the locker room and to the press. The response was mixed. 

Game 2: It was pretty much dead for the first three innings, the Padres frustrating St. Louis and vice versa. Al chewed them out during a long commercial break, veins bulging, eyes about to pop. It was effective. Ginny went to bat, got to first, and from there had to work with Blip and Bobby to steal third. By the time Duarte came up, the crowd was abuzz. Three runs was enough to carry them to the seventh inning, when St. Louis snuck two in before Cocoran loosened up the arm and Mike and Butch controlled the infield. Padres scraped by, 3-2

Game 3: Hooper got injured catching a flyball. Team morale sunk after that, and even a late rally couldn’t save them from a dismal 7-4 showing.

Ginny waited until most the guys were gone before knocking on Al’s door. 

“What’s on your mind?”

Ginny pointed to her arm. “There’s nothing wrong with this. Why aren’t you using me?”

Al folded his arms over his stomach. “Well, I know we’ve been shuffling you around the board, but you’re good in the outfield, good at shortstop. We’re gonna need that now that Hoop’s injured.”

She digested the reason. It made absolute sense. It just wasn’t absolutely sitting well with her at all. “I’m a pitcher, Al,” Ginny said after a moment. “You gonna let me pitch before we get knocked out?”

“You gonna go above me to Management?”

Ginny shook her head. That was the easy way. And the least respectful one, and the way to alienation. No, she wanted Al to make the call. She wanted Livan to stop insinuating her being out the pitching order was due to loyalty or some shit. 

“If you’re saving me up, don’t,” Ginny said. 

Al placed his elbows on the desk and rubbed his eyes. “Look,” he sighed, “I’m not. I told you--”

“I hear what you’re telling me,” Ginny swallowed, “but I’ve got an arsenal of pitches. I got one of the best catchers in the league on me to pitch, but you’re pulling punches. And I don’t want to do that. I want to win. I want to be on the mound. Put me there.”

She stared him down. Al blinked. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Ginny nodded. “Thanks, Coach.” 

She passed Duarte on the way out. They shared quick grins and slapped palms. Mike caught the whole thing and didn’t hide the wince.

Game 4: It was one thing to lose once at home, and badly. It was another thing to fucking lay down and let another team shit all over you. The stands were virtually dead by the time the Cards lit their shit on fire, 6-0. 

The locker room was a case study in sports trauma. Mike was careful to point out what they did right, and how to capitalize on it. He managed to dig up a good word for everyone. It made Ginny feel as though Mike was either terminal or retiring. 

The hours before Game 5 were quiet, less doomed, more contemplative. If they lost this one, they were done. Mike was done. If they won it, they’d have to keep winning, in St. Louis. Some combination of providence, will, and talent would have to happen. Ginny looked for signs of hope in everything leading up to the first pitch. Her eyes kept going to Mike’s bearded face.

Game 5: They should have lost. The umpire made two bad calls. St. Louis went into meltdown mode. Ginny ditched the stock answer when asked about it: “So maybe he didn’t see it, maybe this, maybe that. Point is, they couldn’t let it go and we used it to our advantage. That’s all. See you in St. Louis.”

“Damn,” Amelia said when she called later. Ginny expected to hear a controlled apoplectic fit, not pride.

“I just managed to escape before management could gag me.”

Ginny was sprawled out on her bed, ESPN blaring. They had her interview on. And reactions to it. From St. Louis. 

“It sounds worse than it actually is,” Amelia said.

“No, sounds exactly like how it will be tomorrow.” Ginny muted the tv. “Al still refuses to put me in the pitching order.”

“Do you need me to pull out the heels? I have the red ones right here.”

Ginny smiled. “No, save them for contract negotiations. I just,” she sighed, “I don’t know why. People are giving me looks. The guys are whispering about fatigue. I haven’t pitched in seven games. Seven. Even I’m beginning to think I skipped over the surgery, rehab, and clinics.”

“Don’t even say that,” Amelia said, serious. Ginny twisted her mouth and picked at the comforter.

“You’re obviously a versatile player. Al sees it and maybe wants to build on that. Or he’s babying you, maybe some stat guy told him to give the arm a rest. Whatever the reason, Al wouldn’t sideline you because he doesn’t believe in your worth as a pitcher.”

Her father would have told her to stop whining and trust the game. It was surreal to suddenly realize she was glad Amelia called. 

“You’ve gone silent.”

“Sorry,” Ginny rubbed her temple, “I got caught in a thought. Hey, did Will call?”

“No, no word. But your Mom said she’ll be there.”

“Okay.” Ginny knew Amelia was waiting for the other part. “I guess you can get an extra ticket for that guy she’s been seeing.”

“Aw, look at you, being generous.”

“I think I’ve filled my quota for the year.” 

Amelia went over some endorsement stuff before hanging up. The light from the tv cast clouds of static bluish-white, grays, greens, reds. Ginny looked at the clock. Quarter to one in the morning. She thought about going for a run, or doing a few laps in the pool, or putting on her sweetest voice and ordering pancakes. 

She went instead to the hotel bar. Bart sipped coffee while flipping through Variety. Ginny eased onto a stool and returned the smile. 

“Yeungling Black and Tan?”

“I’m thinking something with just whisky and ice.”

Bart reached for a tumbler. “That kind of day?”

“It’s been that kind of day for the past year.”

“You’ve still got your youth, if that’s any consolation.”

“Thanks,” Ginny said. She watched Bart reach for the high shelf. She should have ordered a beer. Her tab is already a mortgage payment.

“I can’t seem to get away from you today.”

Ginny glanced over to see Mike a stool over, freshly showered. He’d be warm and smell of oatmeal body wash. She hated that she knew that.

“Well, I do live here.” She looked around. “And why are you here?”

“It’s easier to drag my dead body here than home,” Mike said. She hated the warmth in his voice, like they were at a place where they could joke. 

Ginny smiled, grateful, when the bartender set down her drink. She tuned him out as she sipped, then tried not to cough as it burned a trail down her throat and flamed across her chest.

“I thought you only drank beer.”

“Yeah, well,” Ginny held up the glass to take another, smaller sip.

The yellow light grew softer, the shadows more pronounced, the distance between them shorter. The whisky began hollowing her spine. 

Ginny pointed to the television. “Apparently nothing else has happened in the world of sports today.” Mike glanced up. Even if it was brief, it was enough for Ginny to gather herself without him seeing.

“It’s going to be Hell. Well, it would have been Hell already, but we’re talking eighth circle instead of sixth,” Mike said. 

“How pissed do you think Oscar is?”

“How pissed were you to have gone off script?”

Ginny glanced at him. “What would I be pissed about?”

“Let’s see,” Mike leaned on an elbow and held up a finger. “One, not starting.” He held up another. “Not relief.” And another. “Not pitching.”

“I can say the same for you,” Ginny turned in her seat, held up a fist, “but I’m not asshole enough to enumerate why.”

Mike sighed with mock weariness. “Rookie, you gotta be one in order to survive this game.”

“Explains your longevity then, Old Man,” Ginny said. They glanced at each other at the same time. Mike grinned while she tried not to, then chuckled when she failed.

“Did Al talk to you about why?” Ginny asked.

Mike shook his head. Ginny waited for him to actually say no, but he swallowed more brandy.

“Would you tell me if he did?”

“Yes.” His look was hard. It reminded her of where they were and what they weren’t and how they got there.

Ginny decided to wade into it. “Is this revenge for not telling you Duarte was starting?”

Mike let out a full body sigh, finished his drink, and got to his feet. He took out a fifty and set it down. “For hers and mine,” he said to the bartender. He looked at Ginny. “Finish that drink and go rest up, Baker.” He stepped off.

Ginny mumbled a goodnight to Bart and caught up to Mike by the elevators.

“I didn’t know you were petty,” Ginny said.

Mike worked his mouth but said nothing. She followed him into the elevator, but didn’t press her floor. They eyed each other the entire way. She followed him to his room, watched him take out the key.

Mike palmed the card and faced her. “I’m trying. I’m trying to be what I have to be.”

“Bullshit.” Ginny stepped close. “I’m trying. I’m always trying. To keep up, to be in the game, to focus. And you just stand there,” Ginny looked him up and down, “ready to fucking fold.”

His eyes changed, face changed. It was relief when they met each other halfway, lips coming together to cut off breath. She had his shirt off by the time the door shut. He had her wedged between his body and the corner edge of the wall, waistband of her sweatpants down. They pulled at each other, didn’t let in any air. 

Ginny had his dick in one hand. Mike pushed up and in. No air. His tongue was brandy. His skin too hot. She ground against him, his fingers, the wall shifted. Mike moaned into her mouth, her neck. Ginny pressed her teeth against his shoulder, slammed her hips. She groaned, his ass flexed under her palm. She pulled his head back, tasted more brandy, no air again, teeth caught her lips, she came and it was almost painful consolation, a purging wave.

Ginny held him loosely for a minute. She was aware of him in her, aware of heat blowing from the A/C, his forehead pressed against her shoulder, the muscles of his back, his thumb and forefinger separating the back of her head from the wall. 

Her arms fell away. Mike exhaled and stepped back. Ginny observed him. His body was red where he wasn’t tan and pale, and he glistened all over. His eyes were on her too, reading her. She imagined he saw a dazed, flushed, on-the-verge-of-crumbling version of herself. Ginny accepted the vision. It helped her breathe easier.

“Your lips are swollen. I’m sorry,” Mike said, hoarse.

Ginny touched them. “You’re not.”

His eyes lightened. “I’m not.”

Ginny exhaled. She wanted to kiss him again, spread herself over him and kiss him. She kept her eyes on his shoulder and breathed through it until it passed. 

“You should shower or something.”

Mike leaned off the wall. She kept her eyes on where he had been. He stopped by the bathroom.

“You gonna be here when I come out?”

Ginny almost lied. But her lips stung and she knew where the lie would lead. And as much as she liked how his body moved against hers, it wasn’t enough to lie anymore.

“I don’t know. Probably not.” Mike didn’t move. Ginny slid her gaze to him. She understood him as much as he did her. So she gave him the only closure available to them both.

“All this proves is that we’re good at drama, fucking, and baseball. Let’s just play baseball.”

No tears came, thank God. Ginny pulled up her sweats, straightened her shirt. She didn’t have the energy to be cool, so she just left. She got to her room, took a long, hot shower, and lounged on the floor in a robe until Amelia rapped on her door and told her to wake her ass up, they had a game to win.


	5. The Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny and Mike get their rings.

St. Louis: Game 6

Things had been simmering. Brief dust-ups, a pick-off war ongoing, and it was warm, the air was steam, the crowd bloody. Every inning was a battle. Every run hard won. By the top of the ninth, they were in crisis mode, down two runs. Tension wired Mike’s jaw shut. He and Butch watched, hunched over on a bench in the full sun, as Baker stepped up to the box with Blip on second, angling for a steal.

Robeson had that dead fish look. Mike knew it.

Butch spit out his dip. “I smell some shit about to drop.”

Baker crowded the plate. Mike got to his feet. The bench was already clear of asses, everyone just waiting for the inevitable. Robeson lobbed a brushback that nearly removed half her face. Some asswad yelled, “Welcome to St. Louis,” from the home bench as Baker recovered. She flashed a grin, venomous as a cobra, to the dugout. Move and you will fucking die.

The team stayed put, let Baker put on the show. Second pitch curved fast, outside the zone. She pivoted, got beaned right in the back. The Umpire called it a strike. She jabbed her bat at Robeson as she railed against the call. Robeson told her to stop whining and get to it. Baker took a step toward the mound. The stadium held its breath. Mike glanced Blip edging, getting ready for a burst.

Baker hit her spikes with the bat, spit, and eyed Robeson before, again, crowding the plate. She winked at him before he released a fast one straight at her. Typical Robeson. Baker read it and thwacked it into a gap in the outfield. She flew to first, rounded to second as Blip touched home. 

Teti went next, bunted, ran like a demon to first. Baker didn’t attempt the steal, sackers eyed her like starving wolves. Mike was up. He forfeited his usual time and stepped into the box, barrell kissing his helmet, eyes locked on Robeson. It spooked him enough to throw the exact same screwball Mike always hit on Robeson’s pitch. It sailed and they were two over.

The longer the score held, the more the guys couldn’t let go of the bean.

“Why aren’t you losing your mind right now?” Blip asked her. 

“Because we’re fielding and they’re batting to close this out,” Ginny replied. The muscle ticked in her cheek. 

“It’s gonna get raw out there though,” Blip nudged her arm, “you got that hook ready?”

Ginny nudged him back. “Don’t worry, I’d never let anyone mess up that pretty face.” 

They shared a smile before taking the field. 

Like the last game, Ginny was shortstop. Unlike last game, she was aware of how many times she connected to first, how common it was for the ball to go from her palm to Lawson’s mitt. She worked through it. Worked hard. Time grinded on. And then Robeson, on the return to second, smashed through Duarte’s legs as Ginny released the pitch to his glove. Duarte tumbled over, then popped up. The two men bumped chests. Robeson shoved Duarte. Ginny started moving forward when Robeson swung. She blinked, missed Duarte’s dodge, but saw Duarte connect with Robeson’s jaw. 

Pandemonium. Ginny got her arms around Robeson before they were submerged in a sea of shoving, sweating, straining bodies. Her hat got knocked clean off and her shirt grabbed and tugged as she dragged Robeson out of the din. Robeson broke loose but Ginny lunged and caught him again, yanking him backwards. 

A few guys from both teams came to assist and they retreated to third base. Ginny faced Robeson. He struggled to get by her but she blocked him. “Hey, you’re already done. Any more and your shit will be fucked well into next season. Is it worth it?”

Robeson spit out blood and glared, but turned away to curse and rub his face.

After that, it was about who would replace the ejections for the last at bat. Mike was the obvious choice but he had a quick discussion with Al and T.J. came on, Ginny replaced Cocoran. They shut out Peters and Padres won, 7-5.

* * *

Mike walked the field. He didn’t touch the bruised cheek. He stood in the catcher’s box, squatted, popped up, pivoted in. Quick, three times. Each time felt the same: bad. He did it a few more times and his body remembered, the stiffness melted. The groundskeeper called out to him and he took his cue to leave.

He didn’t shower, didn’t touch the bruised cheek. He stared at his face in the hotel bathroom. He looked like a disheveled, matted mess. In twelve hours, he’d have to be catcher. He’d have to call her pitches. He’d have to block it all out.

Some of the guys were at the bar. All eyes were on the replay of the fight. It looked like the entire stadium emptied out on that field. He saw himself, blocking Duarte. A few scuffles between other players, coaching staff. Al in the Ump’s face. Ginny talking down a furious Robeson, lips bloodless.

He left the bar, went to the gym, lifted some weights. He went on the treadmill and ran, thinking over the games, what he knew to be true, what they had to do to win. He thought about her windup. He thought about her stretch. He did lazy butterflies in the pool and thought about her pitches. He was toweling off when Ginny ambled by toward the sauna. 

Part of him wanted to stop her and gauge where she was, if she was anxious, if she had any reservations about what to leave in or out, if she worried about anything, if she believed they could win. Part of him knew it wouldn’t come out that way. Part of him was tired, part of him wanted to try. There were too many parts. What did he want? Mike watched her disappear behind the wood paneled door.

Ginny poured water over the stones and climbed up the wooden seats to very top. This was better than iso-tanks, than drinking, than pacing the square footage of her room, than doing laps in the infinity pool. Better than worrying over tomorrow, the hours, the minutes. Her thoughts dissipated to steam, reduced to just emotions. Fear. Anxiety. Anticipation. Other stuff too, but mostly those three. Ginny weighed them against the heat. She breathed it all in, exhaled, inhaled. 

A blast of cool air made her look down. Ginny thought to cover herself, but then relaxed. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. She closed her eyes and sank back into the heat, into sweat, into the feel of stitching along her fingertips and palm. She thought of release, ball spin, the arc of it terminating in his mitt.

Water splashed over the stones. 

“I’ve been thinking about pitches,” Mike said.

Ginny cracked open an eye. He sat propped on the second to last row, shoulder muscles bunched, skin slick and reddened. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth looking at him. 

“You’ve gotten good with breaking pitches,” Mike continued. “That’s good. Special.”

Her tongue loosened at that. “Yeah, I’m becoming an artist,” Ginny said. “Easier to hide the occasional fastball in junk.” But it’s harder to catch.

“Forget about easier. It’s how we’re going to win.”

Ginny sat up. She didn’t understand how it was nothing to be naked in a sweltering room with him and yet it was everything when they started talking baseball. 

Mike looked up when he felt the bench beneath him shake. Ginny sat beside him, close enough for him to see the splotch of purple and red under her jaw. Her eyes went over to the bruise on his cheek. It was ugly and greenish at the edge. He didn’t tense up, didn’t shift his eyes away. He wanted to talk baseball. He was thinking about her pitches. 

“I’m nervous,” Ginny said, finally. He blinked. “Not about my arm. Not about what I need to do. I want to win this. But I keep thinking,” she frowned, “what about his knees? His back?”

Mike straightened, eyes intent on her face. “Have I ever, despite everything, asked you to pull a pitch?”

Ginny didn’t need to answer. 

Mike nodded, stood. “We know what our roles are, right?”

Ginny gazed at him. 

“What?” he asked.

Ginny shook her head. The more he looked at her, the longer he stayed, the more it became clear this would never change for her. 

“I’ll see you on the mound,” she said. Mike nodded again. She made sure he was all the way gone before folding into herself.

* * *

Game 7

Her heart was in her mouth. Sandwiched between her molars. Her arm was jelly, her stomach sloshed around, and her legs were made of cement. Ginny glared at Mike as he went through the signals. She couldn’t concentrate. She was going to blow it. Her arm was going to fucking fall off, or her wrist would snap, or her knees collapse. The ball felt alien, alive, with a mind to smash Leeward right in the mouth. Or dip low over the plate. Or veer wild into the stands. She didn’t know. Fine sand filled her lungs. Grit turned Mike into a pixelated blob of blue and white and, what color was that, peach?

Ginny dropped her glove and turned around, eyes closed. The crowd murmured. She rubbed her neck until it warmed up. She needed to breathe. Just breathe. 

“Hey.”

She faced forward, eyes snapping to his. Sweat streamed down Mike’s face. So it really was hot. Ginny couldn’t tell. Which was bad. Because it meant she was panicking in the sixth inning for no reason at all. Because they were up and in the middle of a successful pitchout, and all they had to do was hold out for the seventh to seal the win.

“I told Roger you’re on your period, so we got a few extra seconds.”

A stupid grin split his face. “You’re such an asshole,” she said. But it worked. Heat and noise from the stands, from the pens, the smell of clay and sweat and lotion and beer and hotdogs, somewhere, it all rinsed the cold fear away.

“You’re back? Good,” Mike put a hand on his hip, “we can close this out with something extra funky.”

“Funky? Are you jive talking now?”

“It’s cool for ‘cool’. Just go with it.”

“Okay, Mr. Cool Cat Disco Catcher guy, what?”

“Knuckle curve. You’ve only pitched it once, and Leeward’s not properly mystified by the artistry.”

Ginny chewed her lip. She ran through it. All the way through it. She liked that pitch. Loved it. Loved how Duarte cursed her out in practice when she used it. Didn’t so much love how Mike strained to catch it. She sighed and looked into his face. But I did, his eyes said. Ginny didn’t trust herself so she nodded and motioned her hand for him to go back. 

Mike kept his head down and mind focused on not betraying any of the agony he was in. Not one single boo-hoo fucking grimace, he told himself. Catch this damn ball, make due on this trust, and break apart later. Okay, pass Leeward, say some shit remark. Pull down mask. Now grimace. Squat. Christ and Holy Hell, don’t do it, don’t sway. Swallow the bile. It’s just bone grinding on bone, just the total absence of comfort. Focus. See that pitcher up there? See her fixing her cap and scratching her elbow? That’s the signal asking if you’re ready. Tap knee with glove. Yeah, going to definitely pass out soon, but yeah, ready. Okay. The stretch. Half her face is hidden in shadow, but her eyes steal sunlight and beam rays. Love her for that particular magic. Two knuckles exposed below the mitt. She comes set. Fuck. Slide step. Pitch. 

Baker released a beautiful, absolutely monstrous ball. It was the junkiest thing Leeward had ever seen. It flew with all the nastiness of a loogie, the frothy kind with some green phlegm, the one a person avoids even if it means getting hit by oncoming traffic. Except Leeward wasn’t walking on the street. And he could either get some wood on it and halt the inevitable, or pray it misses the strike zone. If only Leeward believed in some power beyond Baseball. 

The ball wavered for a brief second, then decided to fuck with him and zipped through the zone. Leeward glanced at Lawson to see him setting up to block, but the thing was too erratic. A stream of colorful language burst from Lawson as he twisted in an awkward effort to catch the ball.

But he caught it.

* * *

“How you feelin’?”

“I feel like I’ve been worked over with a mallet,” Mike lifted a bottle of prosecco, “but the bubbles help even it out.”

Blip leaned against the doorway. The Cardinals were kind enough to lend their state-of-the-art ice tub to the Padres while a coterie of PTs, management, and his agent discussed the damage. Someone had passed Mike a bottle of Asti in the meantime. Blip had come to discern whether this was before or after the pain medication.

“Do you think you should be imbibing when you’re drugged up to your eyeballs?”

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Mike took a swig, “it’s all localized numbness.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my duty, as the only friend you have, to be concerned.”

Mike cleared his throat. “I didn’t get to apologize to you,” he said.

“For throwing a tantrum?” Blip shrugged. “Not the first time I had to deal with a kid acting like a total asshole.”

A quick look passed between them. All was forgiven. Mike put his head back and sank a little deeper into the tub. It was massive, like one of those kiddie pools but built to hold four linebackers with enough room to avoid any ass grazing. The water bubbled too, which was odd but wonderful. Maybe he could patch himself up and move to St. Louis. Or maybe he could ask Ginny to flash a dimpled grin and get the Padres to install one. Or maybe he should just buy one himself and build a house around it, a nice house up on the North Coast. 

“We play the Cubs next.”

Mike’s chin slipped into the water. “Chicago?”

Blip sighed. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Mike said after a period of sobering silence, “one win at a time. Let’s savor this one before we dive headlong into despair.”

“Wise Old Man Mike is back,” Blip said. He folded his arms across his chest and shot Mike a knowing look. “When you’re wise it means you’re optimistic, and when you’re optimistic it means you got a lady prospect.”

Mike shook his head. “Nope. I’m done. I’m retiring into bachelorhood. This is just the wisdom of the beard, Blip,” he stroked his face, “the beard holds all the answers.”

“Yeah, ask the beard about Ginny. ‘Cause I saw you guys out there. It was like being in the middle of the final act of a romance.”

“Did you come to nag or keep me company?”

“Look, man, I promised Evelyn I’d say something.”

“Tell her you said something. And tell her I appreciate her not coming to stake me with an artisanal planter for fucking up a good thing. But I did. And we’re at a good place now, me and Baker. Professional, but cool. Adult,” Mike nodded, “but wholesome. We can be buddies.”

“Buddies?” Blip laughed, long and hard. “You’re dumb as shit, Mike,” he wiped an eye, “but I admire the commitment.”

Mike waved the bottle to the door. “Let me bullshit in peace then.”

“You’ll be alright if I leave you? You won’t drown and be an unfortunate ticker-tape item on ESPN?”

“I’ll live just to spite you.”

Blip just chuckled and left. The levity wore off and a weird detachment settled in. Retire into bachelorhood. He sat up with a groan, tried to draw up his knees, couldn’t, and sank back down to his shoulders. It would be a miracle of medical science if he was fit to play ten minutes of any game let alone a league championship game against Chicago. Retirement.

Mike expected to the world to collapse, but everything looked sturdy and normal. He breathed normal. He still felt like hot roadkill, but even that was normal. Retirement. He thought of moving to the North Coast, opening a craft brew place, or getting into wine or land management. And then he thought of why he would open a craft brew place, he hated craft beer, and disliked wine and knew nothing about managing land. But Ginny liked craft brew. She liked wine. She liked open spaces, yards, stuff like that. She liked watching the ocean, liked seeing the forest. 

Mike felt it tight in his chest. He thought about maybe managing a team, minor leagues, and knew Ginny would be excited for him, that they’d commiserate together over the phone, argue, laugh, get a little heavy. He thought of other things, but his mind circled back to her, to those eyes and those dimples and that dead-on stare. Circled back to the devastation breaking across her face. Back to the how she brought his face down for a kiss. Around to her running to the catcher’s box and kneeling, cap askew, hand under his head, talking to the Ump and to Al and to the on-field doctor. Calm, but her hand shook. 

Ginny found him in the cold room. He was in an ice jacuzzi and giving the wall his best blank stare. All the words dried up, even the articles, the pauses, everything. Maybe she should have showered, changed, looked more presentable for this. Maybe she should treat this as a decisive move. Maybe she should just turn around, go back to the status quo, and find a nice, quiet guy to stop up the gaping holes. Ginny stood in the doorway, watching him, weighing her options.

She watched him lean forward and press his face into his hands. Like she did last night. He bent at the exact same angle she did. He splashed cold water on his face. Rivulets shone in his beard. His face turned red, then an even pale. He stared at the wall again, this time with a haunted look that made Ginny toe off her shoes and remove her outer shirt.

The movement startled Mike. He saw her strip down to her underwear before thinking to speak. 

“Baker?”

She tied her hair up, removed her socks, then the underwear, and padded over to the tub. The water sloshed a bit as she stepped in. She yelped and he couldn’t hold back the laugh. She settled across from him. Her legs brushed his.

“This,” Ginny sucked in air throw her teeth, “is a horrible idea. I knew it.”

“Then why did you make it?”

“Because,” her eyes went over his face, “because I do things the hard way. Like you.”

“We are difficult people,” Mike agreed.

“So it’s harder for people like us to cave. Like, to say, out loud, that I don’t really care if you have bum knees and a bum back, I don’t care if you think it’s unfair,” Ginny exhaled, “I’m here ‘cause I want to be.”

Mike held her gaze for a long time. “I want you to be here.”

“How long do you want me to be here?”

That was a good question. Forever sounded too corny, but it was true. So Mike settled for something in between. “Every day. I want you and only you spoon feeding me gruel when I’m ninety-two.”

Ginny smiled and it thrilled him, all that warmth, all that beauty lit up and open to him. Maybe he was an egotistical bastard, but Mike felt he deserved that kind of smile, that kind of promise. He deserved to grab it with both hands, with everything in him, and return the favor. 

“Isn’t gruel that stuff they fed Oliver Twist?” She had that ‘gonna make an Old Man joke’ face.

Mike moved forward, placing himself in front of her, a knee on either side of her thigh. She put her arms around him, tilted her head back, waiting to spring the trap. He lowered his head with a grin and kissed her, slow, until her back arched and her hands had wandered to his ass.

* * *

Epilogue

World Series, Game 7, Royals @ Padres

The stands were quiet. A cool wind blew dry the sweat gathered on her neck. Did it always have to happen like this? On a pitch? Everybody watching her, everybody waiting for her to drop set, waiting for this to either come home or go to hell? Ginny read the signal, replied with a brush of her right hand against her left elbow. A brief nod and she was alone with Taneda, the ball, and 60 feet and 6 inches of destiny. Christ, a Mike-worm. She closed her eyes, breathed, concentrated. Ran through the battery. Taneda practically swatted each pitch aside. Fuck. Don’t get tight, don’t get tight, breathe, you know what you want to do, just do it, just throw the damn ball, four fingers, open your eyes, see Taneda, see the catcher, waiting, set up, inhale, hold it, release all three at once: air, energy, ball. 

Ginny heard the crack, then the thunderous eruption, so loud her vision shook. They mobbed her before she touched the grass. When did she start crying? Her voice was hoarse from screaming and it had only been a minute. She looked through the gaps of legs and arms and around trunks to see into the stands, but everything blurred into crystalline messes, so she ran on instinct, into the trench, into the tunnel, to the section, took the steps two at a time, and didn’t have to do much else because the crowd carried her up and she had her arms around him before she knew it.

“You’re stealing my moves,” Mike said in her ear.

The last time this happened, he slipped a diamond in her jeans as they popped champagne in the manager’s box.

“I’ll save the surprise for when we get home,” Ginny said, “But in the meantime..” 

She kissed his neck, then under his jaw, then his smooth cheek, both of them, then his lips, because who cared, she finally had a ring to match his. Her eyes had cleared up enough to see him blushing and she laughed and kissed him again behind her glove.

The section swooned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! Readers, thank you for commenting and giving me archive gold stars. It's been a pleasure.

**Author's Note:**

> So...I took a crash course in baseball at Wikipedia U. It shows.


End file.
